IV.

Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil,
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil;
Their orphans long the art may rue,
For Neville's war-horse forg'd the shoe.
No more the stamp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring.

THE DYING BARD.

[The Welch tradition bears, that a Bard, on his deathbed, demanded his harp, and played the air to which these verses are adapted; requesting, that it might be performed at his funeral.]

AIR-Daffydz Gangwen.

Dinas Emlinn, lament; for the moment is nigh,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die:
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.

II.

In spring and in autumn thy glories of shade.
Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade;
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue,
That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that sung.

III

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride,
And chase the prond Saxon from Prestatyn's side;
But where is the harp shall give life to their name?
And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame?

IV.

And Oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair,
Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair;
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye,
When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall die?

V.

Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy lov'd scene,
To join the dim choir of the bards who have been;

With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Ola,
And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.

VI.

And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades, Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids! And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell, Farewell, my lov'd Harp! my last treasure, farewell!

THE MAID OF TORO.

O, dow shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,

And weak were the whispers that wav'd the dark wood, All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow,

Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood.
"O, saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending;
Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliant's cry;
Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending,
My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die!"

All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle,

With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail, Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle,

And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale. Breathless she gaz'd on the woodlands so dreary;

Slowly approaching a warrior was seen;
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary,
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.

O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying!
O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low!
Deadly cold on yon heath thy br Henry is lying;
And fast through the woodland approaches the foe.”—
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow,

And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with despair:
And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro,
For ever he set to the Brave, and the Fair.

HELLVELLYN.

[In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered til three months afterwards, when they were found

guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmorland.]

I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide;

All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was
bending,

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,

One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I mark'd the sad spot where the wand'rer had died.

Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountainheather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather,
Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay,
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute fav'rite attended.
The much-lov'd remains of her master defended,
And chas'd the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber; When the wind wav'd his garment, how oft didst thou start;

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, Oh! was it meet, that,—no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardia, alone stretch'd before him,-
Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,
The tap'stry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly arch'd chapel the banners are beaming; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamo

When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature,
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam